"I've never seen anyone level up this fast in my entire life, especially if it was myself," someone mutters to another.
But there's no joy in their voice—just weary disbelief. No smiles, no sense of accomplishment. Everyone here knows the torment isn't over yet.
Some of us still haven't received the same notification, which means we have no choice but to endure the cycle a few more times. And sure enough, after three more rounds, every last one of us finally reaches level 2. Only then does the iron grate rise higher than ever before.
Moments later, a distant echo of a chant from above fills the chamber, and the water surges upward, rapidly reaching the same level as the stone floor. We scramble, gasping, crawling onto the filthy ground, bodies sprawled out in exhausted relief.
We've been down here for a total of three hours. I can't even fathom how my body has managed to endure it.
"Three have been eliminated," one of the five elders announces.
I have already seen the faces of two lifeless bodies, but only now does it dawn on me that there's a third among us who hasn't made it.
My eyes scan the survivors, searching—not just out of morbid curiosity, but to confirm whether Siona and Gideon have made it out alive, just like I have.
And then, my silent question is answered. I spot them both, still catching their breath, though they're on the opposite side of the hole from me.
"I'd advise you all not to get too comfortable. Keep your bodies just as warm and ready as they are now," the voice echoes through the chamber. "Because according to our schedule, you still have two more physical trials ahead of you."
The moment those words settle, everyone jolts upright from where they lay. Groans, curses, and protests erupt from every direction.
"How much longer are you planning to torture us like this?!"
"Until only the best of the best remain—the seven strongest, the ones most worthy of receiving the terrifying power we will bestow upon them," the elder responds, his voice cold and unwavering.
And as he speaks, he yanks a girl up by her hair, tilting her head to examine the sickly pallor on her face. He lets out a disappointed hum before continuing, "Honestly, I predicted far more of you would die on the first day—perhaps thirty, maybe even fifty. By the second day, that number would drop to zero. And from that point on, the only reason any of you will die… is if you're killed by your own kind, not because of these trials."
His grip tightens, making the girl wince. "In fact, I predict this one won't survive past the second phase of training."
"Say, if we start killing each other right now until only seven of us remain, would your plan still stay the same?"
The suggestion comes suddenly, from someone standing right behind me—a boy whose wide, anxious eyes carry a glint of something unsettling… something like madness. His words are met with knowing smiles from the elders surrounding us.
"I see," a different person in his black robe muses, stepping forward. "You have the body of a killer, but not the mind of one."
His tone carries a hint of amusement. "If that's what you truly want… then do it. I bet you'd be the first to die with an idea like that."
"You don't know anything about me, old man. You don't know who I was before this."
"And you don't know anything about the others around you." The same elder chuckles, sweeping his gaze across the group. "Oh, but I can see it in all of your eyes. Each of you knows you're a capable killer, but you don't know just how capable the others are, do you? You hesitate because you're unsure. You wonder if they can fight as well as you… or perhaps even better."
A tense silence follows. No one speaks. Eyes dart across the room, gauging, calculating, waiting for the first desperate soul to snap and make a move.
But then, the elder delivers his final words, a parting blow that makes the air even heavier. "Every soul we've summoned here belongs to warriors—true fighters, the strongest ever born in their places. You are rare beings, the kind who would slay a hundred men before ever falling yourselves. And you know it. But here, now, where every single one of you is an apex predator… you are nothing. Your strength means nothing because you are all equally powerful. So think about that carefully."
"Alright, now get up!" A sharp command rings out, leaving no room for defiance. "If you've decided to start killing each other at this very moment, then by all means, do as you please. At least now you understand the risk—your chances of survival are no better than fifty-fifty. So weigh that carefully."
A heavy pause. No one moves. As if this outcome has already been anticipated.
"Now then," the elder continues, turning on his heel, "if none of you have the resolve to follow through, then follow me. It's time for the second phase of your physical training to begin."
~~~~~
As we trudge through the dark, damp corridor, whispers never cease to reach my ears. The discussion back in the chamber makes perfect sense, but it also plants a dangerous seed in everyone's minds—a realization that survival isn't just about endurance or strength, but strategy. And that's where my problem begins.
People are already forming their own groups, forging silent alliances, each one maxing out at seven members—the exact number that will be chosen in the end to increase their chances of survival. And, of course, that leaves me at a disadvantage.
I have always worked alone. Fought alone. Won alone. Until, for the first time in my life, I lose. And then I die. I have never needed a team, never relied on anyone else. But these people? Most of them are soldiers—born, trained, and killed alongside their comrades.
I'm not blind to reality… If I want to survive this hellish ordeal, I will have to find a way to integrate, I will need a team. The problem is, I have no allies yet, nor have I built a strong enough image to make others want to work with me.
And for some reason, I have this feeling deep inside me—a stubborn instinct that I should only join a team if I'm invited, not if I'm the one doing the asking.
Is it pride? Or is it something else?
Maybe it's just a gut feeling, warning me that if I beg to join someone's group, I'll be setting myself up for betrayal. That they'll throw me away when it suits them, sacrifice me when the numbers need thinning.
…Or maybe it really is just my pride refusing to let me kneel. But either way, I know one thing for certain—walking this path alone is no longer an option.
And if I truly have to obey my pride—which, if I'm being honest, I value my pride more than survival itself—then I have no choice but to elevate my image in the eyes of everyone around me... Somehow, I have to carve my image into their minds.
Somehow, I have to make them see me as someone undeniable.
Not just for the sake of survival.
But for my own satisfaction.
"You've got to be kidding me..." A trembling voice comes from behind, as someone else steps into the second chamber, their breath hitching the moment their eyes land on the same sight that has already frozen me in place.
~~~~~